One of my favorite movies is “Mary Poppins,” and I’ve watched Julie Andrews glide over the houses on Cherry Tree Lane at least a dozen times.

I’m also a huge Tom Hanks fan, and I own more of his movies than any other actor. So when the movie “Saving Mr. Banks” came out, I was one of the first ones in line.

I was looking forward to seeing how movie producers coaxed Pamela Travers, the prim author of “Mary Poppins,” into allowing Walt Disney to make a singing-and-dancing movie about her beloved nanny.

As the story unfolded, I became more and more uncomfortable because the movie wasn’t what I expected.

The film wasn’t about a nanny; “Saving Mr. Banks” was about Ms. Travers’ life and that life was eerily similar to my childhood, a time I usually visit only on the outskirts.

I’ve seen movies about alcoholic fathers and their daughters, but none resonated as deeply and as painfully as this movie because my father was so much like Travers’ father and I was like Pamela.

Just like the father in the movie, my dad spun tales of magic that delighted everyone.

He danced on air like Fred Astaire, told jokes like the best comedian on television and, to me, was as handsome as any movie star. I loved him with all my heart and soul.

Over time, the booze alienated most people and I realized this bigger-than-life person was the most damaged person in my life and his as well.

 

Acceptance

My siblings and I have accepted that our father did the best he could. He stumbled a lot, hurt his children deeply, but he finally put away the booze and promised to stay sober.

For the first few years of his sobriety, I didn’t believe that he’d stopped for good. But as he stayed clean for almost 25 years, I came to understand how difficult that decision was to make and how much harder it was to keep that promise to himself and to us.

When my dad was dying, I felt I’d forgiven him for not being the magical prince I thought him to be.

But I never lost the anger and I didn’t realize that until the closing credits of “Saving Mr. Banks” when I couldn’t stop sobbing on my brother’s shoulder.

Over the next few weeks, I accepted the wounds are still there, but more importantly, I realized I was wrong.

For so many years, I thought I’d risen above the harsh reality I had to face about my Dad and I thought I needed to forgive him.

What I really needed was for him to forgive me for not being more accepting of his weaknesses, more supportive of his recovery and happier in his redemption.

I cannot forget the stumbling man who came in smelling like beer nor can I forget the man who built up so many dreams for himself and then, one by one, watched them crumble to dust.

But I can forgive, and it’s about time.

So if my father was here, I’d ask him to come with me on an adventure. Not as magical as the tales he spun for me when I was a child, but something a little more practical.  

Let’s go fly a kite, Dad, up where the air is clear and there are no recriminations, anger or blame.

Just unconditional love and acceptance for the flawed yet unforgettable man who made me believe in the importance of two intangibles – magic and make believe.

 

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

As impersonal chain stores dot almost every retail corner, finding mom-and-pop businesses is becoming harder and harder. I had the pleasant opportunity recently to speak with Vernon Brian, an 80-year-old who still gets up at 6 a.m. to milk cows on his family-owned dairy, Feliciana’s Best Creamery, a family-owned dairy in Louisiana.  

I heard about the dairy through my youngest son. He’s a big fan of the dairy’s Cream Line Whole Milk. The difference between this milk and what’s sold in supermarkets is the Cream Line milks are hormone free and pasteurized, not homogenized.

That means the milk is safe, but the milk needs to be shaken so the cream floating at the top incorporates into the milk mixture. On a recent trip to Louisiana, I decided to visit the dairy myself and see if what I’d read about the Creamery was true.

I maneuvered through winding back roads in Feliciana Parish to where the dairy is located. A cow dog accompanied me down a gravel road past tan and white cows, lazily grazing on green grass.

The road ended at a small shed with a sign on the door – “Come on in.” Inside there were two small refrigerators, and a wooden table had a metal cash box with a hand-written note taped to the top.

The paper instructed customers to pick out what they needed from the fridge and put the money in the box.

I was pleasantly surprised to see there are still people in this world who not only trust the customer but that there was money in the cash box from people who’d gotten there before me.

A cardboard sign was tacked to the wall with prices for the dairy’s offerings – fresh, churned butter, heavy cream, whole milk, chocolate milk and low-fat milk. I loaded six gallons into an ice chest and put my money in the cash box.

About that time, an elderly gentleman, wearing faded overalls, a straw hat and a big smile, came my way.

“Hi there, I’m Vernon Brian, the one who started this dairy,” he said.
The Patriarch

Vernon told me his great-grandfather bought 500 acres back in 1908 in Slaughter, La. Vernon decided he wanted to have his own dairy, and he slowly built a reputable business on the family land. In 1990, his son, Mike, decided to work the dairy full time with his family.

Over the years, the Brians bought all the equipment to process and bottle their own milk on their property. Four years ago, the Brians cut back the herd to only 37 milk cows – mostly raised by their children through 4H – so they could continue to run the dairy the old-fashioned way.

That includes having all members of the family involved in the business. Photos on the dairy’s website show three generations working together in the dairy and on the land. They’re working to create a product they believe is healthier and a reflection of an honest days’ work.  

It’s refreshing to come across a family-owned business that doesn’t take shortcuts and believes in hard work. These types of businesses are the backbone of our country, and they constantly fight against impersonal conglomerates that often sacrifice customer service for lower prices.

Those old-fashioned values of a family sticking together to create a product they’re proud to call theirs is as satisfying as a slice of hot apple pie accompanied by a glass of ice-cold milk.

And if that milk has a layer of thick cream at the top, then that’s some good livin’.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I just finished watching the well-written and well-acted HBO mini-series “True Detective.” Matthew McConaughey and Woody Harrelson were the stars and executive producers, and the story slowly unfolded, surprising viewers each and every episode.

By the end, we were rooting for these two flawed detectives and, at the same time, left with images that the back roads and towns of Louisiana were filled smoke-spewing oil refineries and ignorant, evil people.

Not true.

It’s easy to think Louisiana is nothing more than a concrete highway dotted with Popeye’s Fried Chicken franchises. Beyond the interstates and main highways, though, lies a beautiful state with a generous people.

On recent trips to Baton Rouge, we’ve taken detours up highways west of the capitol city to avoid the traffic backups over the Mississippi River. The diversions are a satisfying choice as the landscape is a welcome relief from rushing casino-bound traffic.

On quiet roads, we’ve traveled past densely-packed sugar cane fields as far as the eye could see. Majestic oak trees, their Spanish moss swaying in the branches like a woman’s silk scarf, line up like sentries through these small towns.

Houses are located away from the highway, and most feature an inviting wrap-around Acadian-style front porch. That style of architecture dates back dozens of years to early settlers who spent evenings gathered on the porches to enjoy the breezes, courtesy of the state’s many rivers and bayous.

We’ve stopped at small antique shops, and the shopkeepers couldn’t have been nicer. People milled through the stores, and their Cajun-accented conversations were delightful to the ear. The air was filled with laughter and exchanges with us and other people in the store. 

A trip over Spring Break took me past parks and baseball diamonds filled with youngsters ready for spring ball. No voodoo or backwoods people here – the parking lots were filled with Suburbans and mini-vans, just as they are in every other state. 

The state’s tried to make a name for herself with shows like “Swamp People” that draws thousands of visitors, but they leave people with the impression all Louisianans walk around muttering “choot-em.”

While the former governor, Edwin Edwards, humiliated himself with a show about him and his young wife, most people cringed knowing this charlatan was once again milking somebody for money at the expense of his own dignity and, ultimately, that of a state that put her trust in him and had it betrayed time and time again by those who sacrificed a good people for a quick buck. 

While I applaud the producers of “True Detective” for bringing their money to the state, I’m saddened thinking those not familiar with the South would believe those dark, dingy bars, crooks and backwoods people are all that make up the Bayou State.

It’s the same with those who think Texas is nothing more than braggarts and women with big hair who spend every other day in the nail salon or that people from New York are rude or people from Wisconsin walk around with a fake block of cheese on their head.

We need to stop judging states by what’s on the surface and take a look at the lifeblood of each and every state – the people and families quietly going about their business.

The next time you head east through Louisiana, take a side trip off the concrete chute and leisurely tour the back roads. Take time to savor a cup of café-au-lait and beignets and visit with the owners. Find the beauty that’s shyly hiding in a state that’s often painted with a narrow brush.

You won’t be disappointed, cher.

This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.

I’m tired of cold weather.

I’m tired of icy roads.

I’m tired of wearing a jacket.

I want Southern weather to return.

My family grew up in the North, about 60 miles southeast of Buffalo,  N.Y. I’ll sound like some old goat rocking on the front porch when I say I remember walking to school in the snow.

Uphill.

Both ways.

We lived in an older house, common in Olean, N.Y., and we used to get dressed standing over the floor heater. My mom would lay our scarves, mittens, snow boots, hats and jackets over the heavy metal grate. Our clothes would be warm when we put them on, and that was a treat because that old house was drafty and cold.

Once outside, what I remember most is walking down the street through a tunnel carved out of snow.

There was an eerie hush walking in that snow tunnel, and I thought the world had turned silent except for the crunching of my boots on the fresh snow.

I remember watching my dad shovel a path from the back door to the driveway, the puffs of white smoke coming out of his mouth reminding me of a locomotive.

There were afternoons making snow angels and snowmen and chasing each other with snowballs.

Before this childhood scene turns into something out of a Norman Rockwell painting, there’s another side to those delicate snowflakes and rooftops covered in a blanket of glistening white.

When the snow melts, backyards turn into a brown wasteland of muddy snow and ice patches surrounded by islands of dead grass.

Northern swing sets rust a lot earlier than their cousins in the South because they’re covered with snow nine months out of the year. Our swing sets fade, but our young-uns are on the teeter-totter in December.

And January.

And February.

In the cold, there’s no getting in the car, starting it right up and driving off. When there’s two feet of snow outside, chains have to go on the tires and then drivers scrape ice and snow off the windshields before they free all four tires from impacted snow.

Ear muffs provide little protection from Jack Frost, and all one can dream about on those days is laying in a hammock under the warm sun, a pitcher of lemonade close by.

For my father, who was born and reared in the hot humid swamps around Lake Charles, La., 10 years of scraping snow was enough. He moved all of us to Louisiana, and we came to look at winter in a totally different light.

Winters didn’t always involve sub-freezing temperatures and busted water pipes. Southern winters meant keeping shorts and sandals close by because it’s not unusual for 70-degree days to show up in February and March.

Southern winters meant there might be a few days with temperatures in the 20s, but those were few and far between.

 Because we’re not accustomed to driving on icy roads, we call school off when the roads are frozen and stay home and drink hot chocolate. In true Scarlett O’Hara tradition, we then tell ourselves we’ll think about making up those snow days tomorrow.

So when it gets here, I’m going to embrace the hot weather.

I’m going to take pleasure in driving on roads that shimmer in the summer heat.

I’m going to enjoy wearing shorts and sandals 10 months out of the year.

And when the bluebonnets bloom, I shall raise a glass of iced tea and a slice of pecan pie to the warm weather gods.

And thank the heavens I’m a Southern girl.

 This column was originally published in The Fort Bend Herald.